


Just One Fix

by NixBlaque



Series: Junkie 'Verse [1]
Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Drug Addiction, Grief, Hurt!Sam, Multi, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixBlaque/pseuds/NixBlaque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean aren't hunters. Their mother wasn't killed by a demon, and they didn't spend their whole lives flitting from on motel room o the next. For the most part, they also weren't friends. When news comes of Sam and Jessica's engagement, Dean realises just how badly he screwed things up with his little brother, but it might just be too little that late, because that night Sam's car is run off the road and all of their lives are changed for ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment of a 'verse that will, eventually, be wincest - as such, I have tagged this fic accordingly. Just One Fix features more cuddly gen than outright Wincest.
> 
> Title is taken from Ministry's song of the same name.

 

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17660)

  
The thing is, Dean and Sam were best friends as kids. They’d have the occasional squabble over the red truck or the building blocks, but mostly they got along like a house on fire. At family dinners, Mary always laughs as she recalls the two of them, talks about how Sam was Dean’s shadow, a hint of sadness in her eyes when she looks at them across the table.

She regales stories of the mischief that they’d gotten into; the time that little Sammy had eaten an entire King-size chocolate bar and Dean had sworn blind that it was him, even though his brother was wearing the evidence as clear as day. The day that Dean had been slightly over-adventurous and gotten stuck up a tree, so his little brother had constructed a less-than sturdy ladder from fallen branches to get him down. The day that they’d found a kitten in the park and smuggled it into the house, kept it in the garage for two days feeding it scraps of chicken and ham.

The fixings of their childhood were happy; their relationship easy and without fault. They trusted each other completely, would have given their lives in a heartbeat, were best friends as well as brothers.

Dean’s not sure when that changed, really.

Probably around the time that he first started hanging out with Debbie and Jackson and their crew in the later years of High School, stealing draws of Jacks’ cigarettes even though he hated the taste and skipping lessons just to prove that he had the balls.

Debbie had taken one look at little, twelve-year-old Sammy tagging along behind his brother and sneered, told Dean that it wasn’t cool to have his little brother following around. Sam had blinked up at the older girl, entirely unfazed and expecting Dean to defend him. Looking at the small group of teenagers before him, Dean had said nothing. Over time, that distance developed into the kind of relationship where Dean had once blamed his brother for crashing the car when it had been him, saying nothing when his brother carried out his grounding without a word against Dean. He’d even gone as far as to lift his brother’s ATM card and pretty much wiped him clean without feeling a smidgen of regret.

Actually, the last one was probably the booze.

In Dean’s experience, a good night out had always consisted of three things: loud music, good booze and pretty people. That’s probably why it took him a while to notice the gradual shift  from drinking when he went out, to consuming almost the same amount when he was just sat at home watching TV.

In the end, it was Carmen who pointed it out.

She had started out, like countless others before her, as nothing more than a one-night stand. Only, she didn’t take the hint like they did: she kept calling, not pressuring him but insisting that they could at least be friends, and suddenly the two of them were sharing an apartment and spending every night wrapped around each other.

“It’s not healthy,” She’d said one evening, eyeing the beer bottle in Dean’s hand critically before dropping her eyes to the three lying empty at his feet. “You need to sort it out.”

He’d laughed her off, not in the habit of really listening to women when it came to the important stuff. The next evening when it got to ten o’clock, he opened the fridge and his hand skipped straight over the beer and picked up a soda.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

Sometimes, Dean has strange dreams.

He dreams that when he was four, a demon fed its blood to his brother and killed his mother – pinned her to the ceiling and gutted her, moments before he set fire to their entire house. He dreams that his father couldn’t cope; that he hit the bottle, hard, and didn’t resurface much for the next fourteen years. That Dean was left to raise his brother, and that his brother loved him for it.

He dreams that he and his brother are hunters ( _hunting things, saving people)_ , that they drive around in the Impala and hunt down vampires and werewolves. He dreams that their father was killed by a demon, rather than a stroke; that Sam can see the future, and that their dad’s best friend is a gruff old man that owns a salvage yard.

He dreams that they spent weekends staying in the home of a Pastor named Jim, and that they were transient – never had a home, and never really wanted one. He dreams of spending nights sprawled on the bonnet of his baby, a beer in one hand and his brother by his side, the stars winking down on them. He dreams of stolen fireworks and the fourth of July, of a much younger Sammy hugging him tight around the waist and holding on.

Mostly, Dean dreams that he and Sam actually like each other.

At first, he ignores it. It’s just another thing in his life that suddenly doesn’t make sense – another consequence of the mistakes he made in High School. A longing for the relationship that he’d once had with his brother. A relationship that he’d destroyed.

It takes a few months for him to realise that he doesn’t have to ignore those feelings – that he really could have a better relationship, if not the one from his dreams, with his brother.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

They all go to their house in Lawrence for Mary’s birthday, and at the meal Sam and Jess make their announcement. Engagement. Dean feels a little sick, because Sam had never even  _mentioned_ it; by the look of surprise on his face when he sees the hurt on Dean’s, he’d never even considered it.

Carmen’s hand finds his under the table, and he can barely bring himself to squeeze back as he finally makes sense of what he’s done to his family. Realises the different ways that he’s torn them all apart without realizing it, realises how he’s always managed to make every significant moment in Sam’s life about  _him._

Sleeping with his prom date, skipping his graduation; hell, the day that Sam told his parents that he’d scored a full ride to Stanford, Dean had gone out and gotten so wasted that Mary had panicked and driven him to the ER.

His mother’s eyes are locked on him, concerned despite Dean’s past transgressions, and Sam’s hand finds his elbow.

“You alright, man?” He asks casually, the tone belying the tight grip on Dean’s arm, as if his little brother is preparing to support him any moment, expecting Dean to keel over. He remembers his dad doing just that, the look on Sam’s face when the eighteen-year-old had caught his father’s body and realised that he wasn’t breathing.

“Not really,” Dean breathes, turning to lock his eyes with his brother. “Just… I’m sorry, dude. For everything – all of the shit that’s happened between us. And congratulations.”

Sam’s eyes widen, and for a brief second Dean can see that kid that used to worship him in those hazel depths, and then his brother’s expression changes to suspicious and he simply nods his head.

Across the table, Mary sighs.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

It’s three o’clock of the next morning when Dean is startled out of slumber by the sound of his phone ringing. Groaning slightly, he fumbles for the device without opening his eyes, flipping it open and bringing it to his ear even as he flops back down onto his pillow – hearing Carmen grumbling under her breath.

“Dean?”

It’s his mother’s voice, true enough, but the first thing that Dean registers is the fear. He sits upright so fast that his head spins, already twisting his legs over the edge of the bed and stumbling to his feet.

“What’s going on?” He asks, mind desperately whirring – trying to find a possible reason for the late night phone call and the panicked tone. He doesn’t like any of the reasons his mind comes up with.

“You need to come to the hospital,” She tells him, normally rich voice choked with tears. A sob echoes through the phone. “It’s Sam.”


	2. Two

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18880)

  
  
The doctor seems genuinely sympathetic when he tells them the news; there was nothing that they could do for Jess, she was as good as dead from the moment that the dog shot out in the road and Sam applied the brakes. Sam got lucky; the broken seatbelt in his car – the one that Mary had nagged and nagged at him to have fixed – had saved his life.

A piece of the plastic had snapped off, pinning Sam against the seat even as the car careened over the railing and flipped twice, the horrific accident stopping suddenly when the car slammed into the trunk of an oak tree a little ways down the incline. He’d received a head injury that had initially been some cause for concern, but tests had revealed that it was nothing major, and he’d since been taken into surgery.

When they’d hit the tree, a branch had gone straight through the windshield – forcing the piece of plastic that had been holding Sam still straight through his side. If the driver of a passing car hadn’t pulled over to call 911, he’d have been dead within the hour. It was a daunting thought.

“What now?” Dean forces out around the lump in his throat.

“We’ve contacted Jessica’s parents,” Dr Radcliffe tells him. “All you can really do is wait. Barring no complications, Sam should be out of surgery within a matter of hours – I’ll arrange for a nurse to come and collect you as soon as he’s been settled into a room.”

Dean sinks into the cold plastic of the seat, eyes watching the seconds tick by on the clock, and dips his head – listens to his mother’s breathing and wishes he could just wake up and have this whole thing be a nightmare.

It never happens.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

The first thing Dean thinks upon entering the room is that his brother looks  _fragile._

In Dean’s opinion, there’s always been something a little bit breakable about Sam. Perhaps it was his brother’s friendly nature and those puppy dog eyes, or perhaps it was the big brother in Dean, but he’d never really seen him as  _strong_  in the same way that he always saw his father. The way he’d always seen himself.

It isn’t until he sees his brother surrounded by beeping machines and wires, as pale as the sheets beneath him and stiller than Dean’s ever seen him, that he realises that he’s never really seen Sam as weak, either.

Dean’s not too big to admit that it scares him.

His mother takes it all in stride; she hesitates for a few seconds in the doorway, sucking in a hitching little breath and holding it for a few seconds, and then she’s as steady as ever, taking the seat by Sam’s hand and gently lacing their hands together.

“You gave us quite the scare,” She tells his unconscious form. “But the doctor says that you’re going to be just fine – maybe a few war wounds, but nothing that we can’t live with.”

Dean thinks of the way that Sam looked at Jessica; he remembers the light in his eyes and the smile on his face as he’d lifted his hand to show everyone the ring, and he wonders if his mother’s right. The doctor’s verdict is that Sam will be fine; Dean’s not sure that his brother will ever be fine again.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

Mary eventually forces Dean to go home and grab a shower, take the time to get dressed properly – in his haste, he’d only thrown on sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that he’s half convinced used to be Sam’s. Carmen’s there waiting for him, concern written clear as day across her features, and the first thing she does when he walks through the door is pull him into a tight hug.

Dean thinks of that dream hug, that perfect fourth of July with his baby brother – the dream that had never become a reality because of him, and for the first time since he’d answered the phone to his mom’s panicked voice, he cries.

Carmen rubs his back and doesn’t say a word.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

Almost predictably, Sam wakes up when Dean’s completely out of reach – driving towards the hospital, Carmen in the passenger seat. She answers the phone for him, relays the message and doesn’t say a word when the Impala begins to go gradually faster.

He rushes through the hospital, Carmen’s shorter legs barely managing to keep stride, and he makes it to Sam’s room in record time. The drive had taken forty minutes, despite his best attempts at breaking any and all speed laws known to man, and he can see two police officers at the end of the hall.

Mary opens the door when Dean hesitates, offering him a small smile.

“I’ll give you boys some time.” She tells him softly, kissing him on the cheek and heading out into the hallway with Carmen. “He really needs his brother right now.”

The warning is clear as day in her tone, and Dean can’t blame her for her caution, but the reminder isn’t necessary. The second that he sees Sam’s red-rimmed eyes he’s officially in big brother mode, ignoring the chair in favour of settling onto the bed next to his brother’s hip.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, lifting his eyes to meet his brother’s. Dean grins at him, but it’s like it gets lost in translation. The heartbreak on Sam’s face makes his own heart skip a beat, dismayed at the idea of his little brother looking so utterly broken. “Dean. Oh, God. I... I killed her. I killed her over a stupid dog.”

Seconds later he’s sobbing, and Dean leans over and pulls him close, letting his own tears fall into Sam’s hair when his brother buries his face in the older boy’s neck.

“I killed her,” He mutters over and over. “It’s all my fault. I killed her.”

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

It’s another two hours before Sam drifts into a fretful sleep and Dean finally allows himself to move from his brother’s side. He tracks one of the police officers down to the canteen, and orders himself the biggest cup of coffee they have, listening intently as the officer relays a blow-by-blow account of the accident.

A man on the other side of the road had set his dog free, probably hoping that the next driver that happened upon it wouldn’t have time to break – it was a pitiful thing, from the way the bystander had described it, and it was a miracle that Sam had seen it in time. Somehow, he had, and he’d slammed on the breaks.

The wheels had lost traction in the rain, and the car had spun completely out of control. The officer described the car’s movements in detail – from the first instant that it had begun to splin, to the final moment that it had slammed into that tree, Sam bleeding out and the love of his life dead in the passenger seat.

“It wasn’t Sam’s fault,” The man reassures. “There was nothing that he could have done – he did everything by the book. The man that let his dog go has been arrested. I doubt he’ll get off on anything, he’ll be serving jail time for sure.”

Dean nods absently, feeling sick to the stomach as he realises for the first time that it had been a whole five minutes before Sam’s car had crashed into that tree – five minutes where Sam and Jess had been both alive and conscious, terrified and completely out of control.

The dog’s fine.


	3. Chapter 3

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/19383)

  
Sam doesn’t get better.

Physically, he heals, and in the week before Jessica’s funeral Dean almost thinks that they might just pull through. Sam stands tall next to Dean as they lower the casket into the grave, doesn’t seem to shed a tear and when people come up to him and offer their condolences, he says all the right things. He holds Jess’ mother tight to his chest, accepts a hug from her father, but politely declines their invitation to accompany them to the wake.

The three of them, along with Carmen, go back to Mary’s house – their house – and Mary sets about making coffee for them. It’s not until she’s setting them on the table that Sam breaks.

It’s like a rubber band snapping, sudden and shocking.

One second he’s slipping into his seat and the next he’s knocking things off the counter and screaming and crying; by the time that Dean gets close enough to restrain him, he’s already wheeling away, the front door slamming shut behind him.

They drive around for hours, searching everywhere that they can think of, before finally heading home feeling sick and scared.

Sam stumbles home after four days, and never offers an explanation.

Later, Dean will wonder if they ever really asked.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

It soon turns out that the night of Jessica’s funeral marks the beginning of months where Sam disappears for days at a time, without so much as a phone call to let them know that he’s alright. There’s never any warning, no pattern that Dean can work out, just the sudden realisation that Sam’s gone again and the terror that follows it.

He always stumbles back in eventually; wearing the same clothes as when he left, just a little bit skinnier and a whole lot paler, most of the time coherent but sometimes with eyes just glazed enough to make Dean wonder.

Occasionally his knuckles are bruised and split, as if he’d been roughhousing for hours.

Looking back, Dean’s ashamed to admit that it takes them over as long as it does to figure out what’s happening. It seems that even in the state that he’s in, Sam’s still using his brain when it counts – Dean and Mary are so focused on his disappearing acts that they hardly even notice the long-sleeved shirts.

It’s not until he walks in on Sam changing that everything falls into place, and Dean feels sick at the sight of the tell-tale track marks and bruises on his arms.

“So that’s what this is?” Dean asks bitterly, watching as Sam’s jumps guiltily, eyes widening as they take in his brother. “We’re here doing our to take care of you, and you’re out there getting high? I thought you were better than that. Do you have any idea what it feels like when you just take off without a word?”

Sam sinks onto his bed, head in his hands and his whole body quivering.

“You don’t understand,” He whispers to the floor. “I can’t do this... this is the only way.”

“No,” Dean tells him sharply. “This isn’t ‘doing’ anything. This is you giving up, and if you’ve already given up? Well, there’s no point in us even trying with you anymore. You’ve already made your mind up.”

Sam’s head flies up, his pupils wide and almost scared-looking. “No! No, I mean, I’m not... I haven’t given up. I  _am_  trying Dean.”

His eyes fill with tears, and he sounds miserable, like the kid that Dean remembers. Perhaps the saddest thing is that Dean believes every word that’s coming out of his brother’s mouth; shit, but the kid’s lost his way more than a little.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” He confesses, head dipping back to the floor. Tiny spots darken on the carpet when his tears begin to fall, and Dean feels what little anger he still possessed melt at the sight of it. He can't remember the last time that he saw his brother cry.

“I know you don’t,” He tells his brother softly, sinking onto the bed beside him. Sam hesitates for a brief moment before he tucks himself into Dean’s side, back shaking with his sobs, the sharp jut of his spine making Dean’s stomach roll uneasily as it presses into his arm. “We’ll figure this out, Sammy.”

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

He spends the rest of the night at the dining table with his mom.

They talk for a while, discuss their options, and then they pull out their laptops and get to work. Dean’s hands tremble when he types the word ‘heroin’ into google, can still remember the way Sam’s voice cracked when he revealed exactly what it was that he’d been pumping into his veins.

“No rehab,” Sam had told him carefully. “I know I need to stop - to get better. Just... let me do this by myself?”

Dean hadn’t made any promises – didn’t know where to start, whether it would even be  _safe_  to let Sam go cold turkey. He knew that quitting alcohol straight away could kill you and although most of the internet searches seemed to suggest that it was safer than it might seem, the majority of them also recommended that it was done with the aid of medical professionals.

They discuss it at length, him and his mom, about how trying to force Sam’s hand might make him reassess his choice to quit. About how scared he’d looked, as Dean had tucked him into bed and kissed his forehead, like he was a five year old kid who needed a bedtime story before he could sleep. About the fact that, even if they successfully get Sam through withdrawal this time, it doesn’t mean that it might not happen again.

 _“Heroin cravings can continue for years, even after a dependant has stopped using,”_  Dean reads aloud, spinning his mug around between his fingers.  _“These cravings appear to be especially prominent in situations of stress, or when the dependant is exposed to people, places or objects that they associate with drug use.”_

“Oh, God,” Mary breathes, wiping her face clean from tears, not for the first time that night. “How did we let it get this far? How didn’t we notice this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly. “But we’re going to fix it.”

When Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean sits him down at the table with a cup of coffee and a plateful of breakfast, dutifully ignoring the way that his brother’s hands are shaking and he seems unable to meet their eyes.

“The second that we think this is beyond what we can manage,” Dean tells him sternly. “We’re taking you to the hospital. You understand?”

Sam nods slowly, staring down at his scrambled eggs as if they hold the answers to the world. There’s a few moments of silence as Dean and Mary dig into their own breakfasts, and Sam eats a few mouthfuls, and then his hand slowly moves across the table – as if he’s worried that Dean might not want to touch him – and his fingertips press against Dean’s, the barest of touches.

“Thank you.”

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

The day that they start Sam’s withdrawal, Carmen phones. She says she’s sorry, but she just can’t do this anymore. Dean doesn’t blame her and, though he hates to admit it, he’s really not as bothered as he should be.

He has more important things to worry about.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

Six hours in, they have to lock the doors.

Sam’s pacing the length of the lounge, itching at the skin on his arms as if it’s irritating him – logically, Dean knows that it’s far more likely that he’s irritated by the lack of heroin flowing through his veins than by the skin that stretches thinly above them, but no amount of rationalisation can make the sight any less disturbing.

Mary fusses in the kitchen, cooking up dinner to cover the noise of her tears, but Dean settles down on the sofa. He’s not letting his brother go through this alone – there’s been enough of that over the last few years, and he’s determined that this won’t be like that. Won’t be like the months after his dad’s death – where Sam would wake up screaming, remembering the way that his father had collapsed into his youngest son’s arms, and Dean had lain awake and done nothing.

He’s determined to stick it out.

Sam alternates between snapping at him and worrying bouts of silence, tears occasionally dripping off his cheeks; Dean doesn’t know if they’re because he’s genuinely upset, or just a part of the process – his body overproducing bodily fluids as it tries to rebalance itself.

Eight hours in, he curls up in the armchair on the far end of the room and shakes.

“It hurts,” He whispers. “Dean, Dean, please – it hurts.”

 _‘It’s normal,’_  Dean reminds himself.  _‘Just aches and pains. Nothing serious.’_

He turns up the TV and pretends not to hear, forcing a laugh when the guy on the screen falls off his mountain bike and into a river. He doesn’t move for the remainder of the comedy show, forces himself to laugh when he has to, and half-way through, Sam drags himself from the chair and across the room, curling into Dean’s side.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and then, “Dean, it  _hurts._ ”

Its pitiful, his brother broken and begging, and for a brief – irrational – moment, Dean considers combing the streets until he finds a dealer, just to relieve his brother from the short-term pain.

 _‘Think of the bigger picture,’_  He coaches himself, and grips the arm of the sofa until his knuckles are white. ‘ _It’ll be worth it in the end.’_

Two hours later, Sam’s still whispering.


	4. Chapter 4

  
[](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/20078)

Some part of Dean – some twisted, secret part – thinks that he has everything that he wanted, that night that the five of them had sat around the dinner table and Dean had realised what a mess he’d made of things, and he didn’t even have to try. Instead, it took Jessica’s death and his baby brother battling addiction to make dreams come true.

The truly sickening realisation doesn’t come until later, when Dean realises that he doesn’t mind having his shivering brother tucked into his side on the sofa, nose pressed against Dean's collarbone and trembling breaths puffing across his skin.

“Come on,” Dean groans, stretching out limbs that have long since fallen asleep and staggering a few steps when he stands and finds that one of his legs – the one that Sam had been leaning on – is disconcertingly numb. “Time for bed.”

Sam blinks at him drowsily, tips his head like a puppy and then he frowns.

“Please don’t leave me.” His voice is cracked and hoarse from hours of begging Dean to make it stop, and the hand he stretches out is still trembling, skin so pale that Dean can almost see the veins that lie underneath it (the veins that Sam shot full of heroin, just to make it through the day, whilst Dean and Mary pottered around, completely oblivious).

“You need sleep, Sammy,” He tells his brother gently, tugging on Sam’s hand and helping the younger man shakily manoeuvre himself onto his feet. Sam’s eyes meet him, puppy dog look at full force, and Dean feels his resolve break. “How about you stay with me?”

He doesn’t really think about what he’s suggesting; briefly recalls nights when they were kids, when Sammy would wake up from a nightmare and crawl into Dean’s bed. Dean would wrap his arms around him, and Sammy would tuck his face into his brother’s neck, tears dissipating as his brother whispered, ‘It’s alright, Sammy. I’ve got you. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.’

Sam does that strange head-tilt thing again, before nodding hesitantly, nearly throwing himself off balance. Dean’s arm tightens around him, keeps him on his feet, and his tugs Sam towards his bedroom.

Mary’s light is still on, her door half-open and when Dean peeks inside he can see her lying on top of the covers, tear-tracks drying on her face and her TV playing quietly to nobody as she sleeps the sleep of the exhausted. He briefly contemplates rousing her and getting her into bed properly, but figures that it’s better just to leave her to get as much rest as she can. They’re going to need it. 

Dean’s room is, predictably, a mess. When he’d lived with Carmen, she’d been pretty good-natured about his tendency to leave everything strewn across the floor, cleaning up after him like his mom had done when he was a teenager; without her there, and with his mother pretty much figuring that he’s old enough to take care of himself, his room looks like there’s been some kind of explosion.

Laundry, both clean and dirty, is lain out in ironed stacks and crumpled heaps; magazines, folded awkwardly and torn from being trodden on and kicked, litter his desk and a small patch of floor next to the end of his bed, where he’d casually toss them after a late-night read.

Sam, if he wasn’t pale and trembling and sick, would have probably had some kind of aneurism at the mere suggestion of spending the night in a room like Dean’s. The kid had always been a neat freak, had – for three memorable months – been on medication for his ‘OCD’ like tendencies, which they’d taken him off when he’d started falling asleep at the dinner table.

Even though, apparently, he’d spent the last few months shooting junk into his veins, his own room was immaculate – bed made with a military-like precision, and his books ordered alphabetically. It was scary, sometimes, how the little things showed just how different they were to one another.

“At least take your jeans off,” Dean found himself groaning when Sam shrugged out of his hand and stumbled the two steps to the bed, falling onto the the soft mattress in a less than graceful manner. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, awkwardly fumbling with the button. Rolling his eyes, Dean quickly slipped his own jeans off and tossed them in the corner before knocking Sam’s hands aside and quickly ridding his brother of his own trousers. Sam offered him a grateful smile, wriggling under the duvet and pressing himself against the wall, leaving as much space as possible in the small bed.

The narrow strip of bed hardly seemed inviting, but Dean lifted the duvet and climbed in regardless, twisting for a few seconds before finally settling with his chest pressed to Sam’s back, an arm slung around the younger boy’s waist for balance – it was the only feasible way of both of them sleeping on the bed.

 

If he was honest, he half expected Sam to say something – it wasn’t exactly like they were at the age where cuddling up together or sharing a bed (and spooning, although Dean would go to his death bed denying that was what they were doing) was still acceptable for brothers. 

Instead, Sam’s muscles seemed to relax all at once, and he let out what sounded like a relieved sigh. Convinced that his brother wasn’t going to suddenly freak out on him, Dean couldn’t resist but to tuck himself in a little bit tighter before closing his eyes and allowing himself to, finally, drift into the welcoming world of sleep.

 

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

When Mary came in with breakfast that morning, her normally loose hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of her head, it was to her two sons tangled together almost entirely, dark bags under their eyes even as they did their best to chase away the first of the morning’s rays with a few more hours sleep.

 

If she saw anything wrong with their sleeping arrangements, well, she didn’t say anything – simply handed over two trays of food and disappeared again.

Dean couldn’t help but feel a little bit angry; for all that they’d sworn that they’d help Sam, she really didn’t to be doing all that much other than plying them with food whenever it was convenient. It was a hard time, sure enough, but nothing that the two of them were going through even compared to what Sam was having to endure. 

Carefully, Dean managed to untangle himself from his brother, sitting upright in the small bed. With a few moments of careful manoeuvring, his brother was leaning back against the wall, looking somewhat queasy at the smell of the food. 

“Can you at least try and eat something?” Dean asked carefully. “I know you must be feeling pretty crappy right now but, honestly, we can’t afford for you to lose any more weight.”

He gently pinched the taught skin of his brother’s stomach underneath his skin, not the slightest trace of fat there, and his brother winced.

“Not hungry.” He croaked, the night having apparently not done much to make his throat feel better. “Feel a little bit sick.”

Dean hesitated, before carefully handing him a tall glass of orange juice.

“At least try and drink that,” He reasoned. “You never know, it might make you feel a little bit better. You might want some of this food after all.”

 

Sam nodded reluctantly, clasping the glass carefully between in one of his still-shaking hands and sipping at it slowly. Quietly digging into his own food, Dean observed his brother carefully, the pale hand on Sam’s stomach doing little to reassure him that the kid was actually going to manage to keep anything down.

When he’d finally emptied the glass he cautiously leant over Dean to set it down on the nightstand, shifting to set his tray of food down next to it, before leaning back against the wall, looking even more pale than he had moments before.

Less than a minute later and he bolted to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he was on his knees and retching violently. Dean was seconds behind him, gently holding his forehead to stop him from toppling over.

The orange juice obviously hadn’t been enough, because after just a few minutes Sam’s vomiting turned to painful dry heaving that reverberated through his entire body. 

Feeling more than a little helpless, Dean resorted to gently massaging his brother’s stomach through his thin t-shirt, hoping to convince the muscles to stop spasming. It didn’t work, but Dean refused to leave his brother’s side – alternately stroking his hair and massaging his stomach even as his own breakfast grew cold in his bedroom.

When he shouted for a glass of water, Mary brought it to him in silence and left the room as soon as she had.

She never acknowledged Sam.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

“You think you’re safe to get back into bed?” Dean asked him quietly, recognising his brother’s squint and knowing that his head must be pounding.

 

After a few moments consideration, Sam painstakingly shook his head. “Still sick.”

“Okay,” Dean acknowledged with a forced smile. “Okay, that’s alright. How about this? You just stay right here, and I’ll go and fetch some blankets and a pillow. We’ll make you a bed right in here, does that sound alright?”

He winces a little at the patronising tone of his own voice, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind, just nods his head vaguely and curls up in a tighter ball. When Dean brushes his hand over Sam’s arm as he’s climbing to his feet, he’s cold, and Dean adds a hoodie to that list. 

In the end, he grabs the blankets from his bed and Sam’s, alongside his own thickest hoodie and two pillows, nearly tripping over his bundle as he makes his way back to the bathroom, grateful again for the sheer size of the tiled room.

“Here we are,” He mutters, tossing everything on the floor. “Sammy? Hey, Sam, I’m just gonna move you over here for a second while I sort everything out, alright?”

He receives another vague nod for his effort and can’t help but sigh a little bit as he helps his brother into a semi-upright position and all but drags him towards the doorway of the room, carefully leaning him up against the wall there, taking the time to slip his hoodie over his brother’s head.

Due to Sam’s height, the thing should be miles too small, but instead its loose and baggy, making him look small and frail. Dean almost regrets not fishing out one of Sam’s, and then the kid sniffs at the collar and smiles a little bit.

“This yours?” He asks, blinking up at Dean.

Dean nods, and Sam’s grin widens a little before he snuggles into the warmth of the hoodie. 

“Thank you.” He whispers quietly. 

Finally content with the small mound of blankets and pillows, which looks more like a nest than anything else, Dean tugs his brother back across the room and does his best to help him find a comfortable position.

His brother is clearly exhausted, and Dean felt the night before catching up on him, too, as his brother snuggles up beneath the blankets.

“You tired?” Sam asks blearily. He doesn’t wait for an answer, simply shifts over to be a little closer to the toilet and make some room for Dean. “’should get some sleep.”

Smiling at his little brother, remembering all of a sudden the happiness that came from knowing just how much Sam loved him, Dean can’t really say no – instead, he worms himself underneath the blankets next to his brother and tugs him close. 

“Body heat.” He infors him casually, but the knowing smile on his brother’s face says it all. “Get some sleep, Sam.”


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/19881)

It was the sensation of fingers trailing across his forearm that awoke him, hours later. It took a few moments for his brain to wake up and process that it was Sam cuddled up to him, his brother’s fingers lightly tracing patterns up and down the skin there, his hands steady and sure for the first time since this whole thing had begun.

“What’re you drawing?” Dean muttered, propping himself up on his elbow as if the movement would help him make out the invisible shapes.

“Runes.” Sam offered. “For protection.”

“Protection runes?” Dean frowned, eyeing his brother carefully. “Where the hell did you learn them?”

“Jess was-“ Sam broke off, cleared his throat, and Dean felt his pulse quicken – it was the first time he’d heard his brother say Jess’ name since the accident, other than when he’d been awoken by the sounds of his brother screaming it in his sleep. “She was taking this class… ‘Paganism and other Alternative Religions’ or something. She really liked it, and when we got our apartment she made me write them out on the door frames and the window sills, from protection. I don’t know, it was… nothing bad ever happened there, y’know?”

“Huh,” Dean commented intelligently, resting back down on the floor and making no move to untangle himself from his brother. “You think there’s something to it, then?”

Sam shrugged, his careful tracings slowing to almost a complete halt.

“Maybe,” He allowed. “I guess it’s like – if you die believing in something, and there’s nothing there, you’re not gonna know any different. If you die believing in something and it  _is_  real, well, awesome. If you die  _not_  believing and there is something…”

The older man nodded thoughtfully, unable to help surprise from blossoming in his chest. “So you believe?”

Faith was something he’d never even considered in relation to his brother. As a family, they’d never really attended church; Dean had known that both of his parents went occasionally, but neither of them had tried to make their sons attend, had shrugged and said that they didn’t want to force their beliefs on their kids.

“Sure.” Sam looks slightly surprised. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice – I asked Dad to take me to Church with him a few weeks after my fourteenth birthday. We went every Sunday.”

“Really?” Dean couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his tone, but Sam didn’t seem to take offence. It was unreal to him that he’d lived in that very same house for almost two years after Sam’s fourteenth birthday, and he’d cared so little about his family that he’d never even noticed. “I was a real dick back then, huh?”

Sam laughs, the sound low and soft and like music to Dean’s ears, and the two of them lapse into silence for the longest of moments.

“I wanted you to be my best man.” Sam whispers after a while. “I didn’t… Jess wanted me to ask you at dinner, but I was too nervous. Couldn’t work out what you’d say.”

“Oh, kid.” Dean’s voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears, and his arm tightens around his brother’s waist. “My answer would always have been yes, dumbass. It would have been the proudest moment of my life, doing that for you.”

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

Sam’s stomach finally settles enough that he feels safe to leave the bathroom half an hour later, and they head back downstairs. Mary has a notepad out, scribbling furiously across the surface with what John used to call her ‘work face’ firmly in place; she doesn’t glance up when they enter the kitchen, and Dean feels anger stir in his stomach once more.

Sam ducks his head, reaches to take a glass of orange juice from Dean with a shaking hand and tries to hide the way his shoulders have slumped. He doesn’t know why his mother has suddenly decided not to acknowledge her youngest son, remembers the steadfast determination with which they’d researched withdrawal and the fire in her eyes when Sam had agreed that – with their help – he’d undergo it, but he knows that it has to stop.

“Hey-“ He starts, but Sam talks over him, lifting his head and meeting Dean’s eyes with a desperate look.

“Why don’t we go and put a movie on?” He asks, bustling Dean out of the kitchen as quickly as he can – the elder Winchester knows that his brother’s just trying to avoid a confrontation, but with that look on Sam’s face he can’t protest, letting himself be led away from his mother and a potential argument.

They pick an action film with a few mediocre fight scenes and one truly spectacular car chase that they’d both seen a hundred times and settle onto the sofa. Sam settles down close to him, and Dean remembers like this when they were kids – curled up under a blanket watching a movie with their parents, giggling when John put his arm around Mary or when she would lean into him.

In some ways, everything’s different now – John’s dead, buried and gone, and Sam’s lost the girl he loved with all his heart. Their childhood innocence has gone, swallowed up by grief and pain and a world that likes to take and never give.

In some ways, things are exactly the same – they’re back to how they used to be, warm skin pressed against warm skin under the safety of a blanket that smells like home. A history of private jokes and shared looks lies between them, and they fall back into that same easy comradery that belies the way Sam’s hands tremble and Dean’s heart squeezes every time he sees his brother’s needle-bitten arms.

Part of them will always be those two children, but they have grown into men in size and shape and heart. Somehow the world is just as scary to them now as it was back then.

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

At some point during the movie, Sam doses off, pressed against his brother from ankle to shoulder. Dean’s reluctant to move, but knows that this is the best chance he’ll get to talk to his mother without his brother overhearing whatever it is that she so clearly has to say, so he gently untangles himself and heads back towards the kitchen.

Mary’s still where they left her, though the fresh cup of coffee is proof enough that she’s moved, and Dean pours himself a mug in silence before settling down opposite her. Her fingers tense around the body of her pen, but she doesn’t raise her eyes to meet him.

“You’re making it harder for him.” He tells her, voice low and soft and even. “I thought the plan was to get through this together?”

She doesn’t answer for a long moment, finishes her sentence and carefully lays the pen down before tipping her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes are hard and her gaze unwavering.

“He did this to himself.” She informs him, as if he didn’t already know that – as if the knowledge that his brother was so close to killing himself wasn’t already burnt into his brain, the track marks littering Sam’s skin the very image he saw every time he closed his eyes. “We were here, working ourselves to the bone to try to make things easier for him, and he was out there doing… _that.”_

Dean frowns. “He didn’t know how else to cope, mom. Hell, for all that we were doing our best to help, I can’t remember a time when any of us actually tried to  _talk_  to him. We fussed around him like he wasn’t even there half of the time.”

“He _wasn’t_ there half the time.” She snorts bitterly, tossing her pen onto the table-top with a clatter. “He was out shooting heroin into his veins and ignoring the fact that we were all home worried sick. I just can’t believe that any child I raised would be so selfish.”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise. “What?”

“How could he do that to us?” She continues. “How could he sit at this dinner table and lie to our faces, sneak off in the middle of the night and worry us all stupid for a bit of a thrill? It’s disgusting.”

“Can you even hear yourself?” He snaps, cutting off her angry tirade before she can get any further in. “He didn’t do this to  _us_ , Mom. He did this to himself. As for being selfish… well, Sam’s the lest selfish person I’ve ever met. If he wasn’t? He wouldn’t be in there putting himself through hell for us – he’d be buried in the ground right next to Jess.”

Unable to bear the company of his mother for one moment longer, Dean collects his coffee and stands. Mary doesn’t protest, and Dean shakes his head as he leaves the room, left angrier and more disheartened by the results of his efforts.

It’s not until he’s halfway down the hall and nearly in the longue that he registers another presence, and he turns to see Sam standing slumped, leaning against the wall next to the door for the kitchen. His face is strangely blank, lost and desolate, and Dean’s heart picks up speed when he realises that his brother just heard every last thing that either of them had said.

“I was coming to get a drink,” He explains, as if he needs a reason for walking around in his own house. “I woke up and you were gone.”

Dean frowns, nods at his own coffee. “Yeah. I was thirsty, too.”

There’s a long pause where both of them simply study one another, unsure where Sam’s accidental eavesdropping leaves them, and then Sam sighs and slips down the wall, knees pulled up and hands hanging loose between them.

“I don’t…” He breathes, the words almost lost in the tenuous stillness of the moment. “I didn’t mean to fuck this up so badly… I didn’t. I never wanted her to hate me.”

The words give Dean the momentum enough he needs to move (and he remembers when they used to work like that; two halves of the same whole, Sammy would breathe in and Dean would breathe the same air out) and he crosses to sink down next to his brother, casting his coffee cup aside.

“She doesn’t hate you,” He tells his brother sternly. “She’s just… upset, and she doesn’t know how to handle all of this.”

“I heard what she said Dean.” Sam admits. “I know the truth when I hear it – I was going to be a lawyer, remember?”

Like Dean could ever forget. “So? She’ll get over it.”

“She shouldn’t have to.” Sam whispers. “I mean, she’s right – I was selfish. The first time I did it… the night of the funeral, I knew it was a mistake. That it was one of the worst decisions of my life… I still went back the next night. I didn’t think about you guys at all, about what it would do to you if you found out.”

Dean frowns, tugs his brother into his side and wraps his arms around the younger man’s too-skinny shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have had to think about us. It was our job to be there for  _you_ , and we fucked up just as much as you did… if not more for taking so long to see what was happening.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.” Sam shrugs. “And it’s not like I asked for help. That was never on you.”

For a long moment, Dean feels the words sting and he tips his head back, lets it slam off the wall, wonders how he ever let things get this bad between them – why he never took the time to care, didn’t even realise the things he’d done to his brother.

“You remember what you said, when I stole your ATM card and cleaned you out?” He asks, wincing at the admission of a past he wishes he could erase. Sam nods. “You should have been so pissed, dude – hell, I would have gone mad – but all you said was that if I’d asked, you would have given me everything.”

There’s no hesitation. Sam glances at him and shrugs. “I would have.”

“And that’s exactly my point. You were willing to give me everything Sam, and I remember when we used to  _be_  each other’s everything. It was never about asking, it was about me realising that I’m willing to give you everything, too. This isn’t about responsibility or owing each other…” He trails off, tries to find the meaning in his own rant, and tugs his brother closer. “I’m not sat on this scratchy-ass hallway carpet out of some twisted sense of duty, I’m here because I’m your brother. Because I’ll do everything I can to help you fix this, and if Mom has a problem with it? Well, then, we’ll find somewhere else to live. You hear me? You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”


	6. Chapter 6

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/20363)

Despite Dean’s best wishes, the next morning brings little difference in their mother. She’s silent when the two of them sit at the table with her to eat breakfast, won’t meet Sam’s eyes. As soon as she’s done, she dumps her plate on the kitchen counter and leaves. A few moments later, the slam of her door echoes through the empty house.

Sam’s shoulders slump, and he pushes away his still mostly untouched breakfast.

Dean’s hands clench around his cutlery, but he continues eating his own food. Sam doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t continue with his own meal either, just sits opposite Dean and shakes. Dean hates that the sight of shaking limbs is already so familiar, and for a moment he wonders whether they’ll ever get to a point where Sam’s hands will be steady.

He pushes the thought away as soon as it comes, annoyed at himself for doubting his brother, even for a second. If there’s one thing that Dean’s learnt over the past few days, it’s that his brother  _never_  gave up on him – not even when Dean deserved it – and he’s not about to give up on Sam now, not when he’s already got so much to make up for.

“You feeling any better?” He asks conversationally, taking a deep gulp of his orange juice.

“A little.” Sam forces a smile, dropping his shaking hands into his lap. “Don’t feel sick anymore, at least. Thank you… for staying with me.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and the grin comes to his face feels as easy as breathing. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together, you hear me?”

Sam nods again, and his smile looks a little more real this time. Hesitantly, his fingers come out and tear a small chunk of toast away from one of the two untouched slices on his plate, and he chews it slowly. Dean ducks his head, hiding his triumphant smile.

For perhaps the first time, he knows with complete certainty that they’re gonna be okay.

“So, how about you take a shower today?” He asks conversationally, swallowing the last of his food and leaning across the back of his chair to stretch. “No offence, man, but you’re starting to smell a little ripe.”

Sam blinks at him dumbly for a second, as if surprised, and then glances down at himself. For a second, Dean thinks he’s made some kind of mistake, and then Sam grins.

“Yeah,” He laughs. “I could probably manage a shower.”

He pauses awkwardly, tangling his fingers in the bottom of his shirt, and Dean can practically feel the kid’s tension when he finally opens his mouth to speak.

“Do you think…” He hesitates, flickers his eyes up briefly before dropping them back to the table. “I’d really like to go to church today… if you’d come with me?”

Instinctively, Dean opens his mouth to say no, to laugh the request off like he had every time that his mother or father had offered to take him. Sam’s watching him, braced as if waiting to get shot down in flames (and sometimes Dean wonders if his brother knows him better than he even knows himself), and Dean nods instead.

“Sure.” He nods. “Go shower and change, and then we’ll take you to church, Sammy.”

The smile that breaks out across Sam’s face – pleased and wide and  _real_  – is worth the way that Dean’s stomach almost rolls at the thought. Who is he to deny his brother anything?

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/17699)

Sam looks undeniably better once he’s showered and dressed, clean-shaven and smelling of soap and shampoo. It doesn’t change how much weight he’s lost, or how pale his skin is, but the long sleeves hide the track marks and the baggy shirt disguises the faint outline of his ribcage. His hands are still shaking, but with his hands shoved in the pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing – Dean’s, but the older brother doesn’t mention it – it’s almost impossible to tell.

He doesn’t look like the same shell of a man that had sat opposite Dean at breakfast that morning. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but all Dean can think was that Sam  _was_  getting better.  

“You smell better, at least.” Dean grins, scooping up the Impala’s keys from the key bowl in the hallway. As if the jingling is some kind of code, Mary chooses that moment to appear in the living room doorway. Her eyes skip from Dean, down to the keys and then across the Sam, and then she frowns and folds her arms.

“You’re taking him out?” She demands. “You really think that’s a good idea? What’s to keep him sneaking off to meet up with his dealer?”

Dean glances at his brother, expects him to defend himself. Instead, the happiness fades from Sam’s face and he ducks his head, just standing there and taking it like a puppy that’s been kicked one too many times. Protectiveness and anger stir in the pit of Dean’s stomach, and he can almost feel the moment that his control snaps.

“You know what, Mom,” He snaps. “I wish I could be as self-righteous as you are, I really do. What the hell makes you think that you’ve got any right to talk to him like that? Dad would be fucking ashamed of you.”

Mary blinks, and the cool indifference that had coloured her face only seconds before is replaced by anger.

“Don’t you dare bring your father into this,” She shouts. “You have no idea what he’d say! Hell, for the last four years of his life the two of you barely even knew each other!”

Sam makes a choking noise, eyes going wide and darting to Dean’s face. For a second, all the older boy can feel is pure hurt, and then it fades.

“Yeah?” He asks, suddenly. “Because I’m starting to wonder if you really knew him, either. You see, we once had a very interesting discussion – dad and I – about his friend Carl.”

Mary pales, and Sam frowns, clearly lost.

“You see,” Dean carries on, eyes locked on his mother. “Dad wanted me to know that I could go to him with any kind of problem. Girls, booze… hell, even drugs. So he told me about a guy he served with in the Marines. They were good buddies, even when they got back, so when dad found out that Carl had a little problem with coke? Well, he checked him into rehab. Dad was there for him the whole time, Mom, or had you forgotten that?”

She still doesn’t speak, just stares at him, until Dean can’t work out whether he’s seeing fear or anger in her blue eyes.

“Dad would have supported us,” He tells her. “He never would have treat his own son like shit, and he’d have been so pissed at you for doing it. But you know what the worst part in this is? That you’re blaming this on the fact that Sam was selfish, and really the only selfish one here is you.”

He’s panting, more angry than he ever remembers being, and he just can’t seem to stop the words from coming.

“Well guess what, Mom? I’m not putting up with this shit, and I’m not gonna let you treat my little brother like he’s not  _worthy_  of you. Frankly? You don’t deserve a kid even half as awesome as Sam is, and if you carry on like this? You’re gonna lose him. Hell, you’re gonna lose us both.”

Mary still does nothing but stand there, pale and blinking, and suddenly she looks small and tired and lost. Dean wants to tell her that he’s sorry, wants to hug her tight and never let go, but he knows he can’t do that. He can’t forgive her, not this time – not yet – because his little brother’s stood there with tears in his eyes, staring between them like he can’t believe that Dean chose  _him._  Like he can’t believe that he’s worth defending.

So, instead of giving in to his mother, Dean nods at the door.

“Come on, Sammy.” He tells his brother with a small smile. “We’ve got places to be.”

Sam nods, slipping past his brother and out of the front door without looking back. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the passenger side of the door, hand on the handle.

Dean glances at Mary as he shrugs his jacket on, giving her one last chance to take it back. She doesn’t.

“Okay.” He says quietly. “So you’ve made your decision. Fine. I’ve made mine, too. We’ll start looking for apartments in the morning.”

[ ](http://nblaque-impala.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/372/18164)

The church is bigger than Dean remembers it.

He eases the Impala into a parking spot with ease, glancing over at his brother as he turns the engine off. Sam’s slumped in the passenger seat, but his eyes are on the church; Dean waits for him to open the door and climb out, but he doesn’t. Just sits and stares.

“You alright?” Dean asks after a few moments, slinging his arm across the back of the seat and squeezing the back of his brother’s neck. Sam turns to face him, tears in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” He whispers, a hand reaching out and absently tugging on a loose thread on the knee of Dean’s jeans. “She was right to worry.”

“No,” Dean frowns. “She wasn’t. She had no right to call you out like that, just like she has no right to say shit about you, or to completely ignore you.”

Sam ducks his head. “She’s our mom.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “Well, she’s doing a hell of a job, isn’t she?”

The younger man snorts, and Dean sighs, reaches out with his free hand to tip the kid’s head up, locking their eyes together.

“I’m serious, Sammy. What you’re doing… the shit that you’re putting yourself through? You didn’t have to do that. You’re here because you chose to be, and that’s a hell of a choice to make. Forget what she said. I’m damn proud of you kiddo, and you should be proud of yourself… I bet that, wherever Dad is, he’s proud of you, too.”

Sam’s eyes close, and Dean’s pulling him into a hug even as the first tear falls down his face. Sam curls into him like he’s still four years old, head tucking under Dean’s chin like it was made to fit there, and Dean holds him tight.

He expects the kid to break down, to sob and shake. Instead, Sam just lies there and trembles quietly for a few moments. When he pulls away, his eyes and face are dry, and Dean can see the determination there.

“Ready to go in?” He asks, grabbing the keys out of the ignition.

Sam nods, opening his door and sliding out with a grace that had been missing from his movements over the past few days.

_Road to recovery_ , Dean thinks, and grins.

He expects the hesitation at the doorway, had pretty much figured that it’s probably the first time Sam’s stepped foot into a church since Jess’ funeral, and he gently places a hand in the middle of his brother’s back and pushes forward.

Sam doesn’t resist, but he’s still trembling and Dean’s not naïve enough to think that it’s because of the withdrawal.

It’s dark inside, and comfortably warm. It’s not well lit, despite the light of hundreds of candles, the stained-glass windows creating strange, twisting patterns on the wooden pews. The floor is concrete, smooth beneath Dean’s boots, and Sam doesn’t glance around, heads straight towards the third pew back, directly in front of the altar. The mindless way that he heads there makes Dean wonder if that’s where he’d sat with their father, if they’d occupied these very seats every Sunday whilst Dean slept his way through another day, completely oblivious.

The older boy follows a few steps behind his brother, taking in as much of the church as he can, wondering what it is about this place that brings people back week after week. What it is that makes them feel safe.

He sinks into the seat next to Sam as the younger one bows his head, and for a moment it’s like he’s lost. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do – is it disrespectful to do nothing? To look around him, or to stare at his brother?

He settles for laying his hand on his brother’s knee and dipping his head, wondering what it is that Sam’s praying for. He wonders whether Sam just wants to remember, whether he’s thinking of Jess or his father, he wonders if his brother’s thanking God that he’s still alive, or whether he wishes that he wasn’t.

For the first time that he can remember, Dean considers sending out a prayer of his own.

He’s not sure how to start, or what to say – it seems wrong to step into a church for the first time and demand that some higher power help his brother, and besides, they don’t need any help.

Instead, he finds himself sending out a prayer of thanks.

_Thank you,_ he thinks _, for giving us both a second chance._


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks later.

**epilogue**   
**(three weeks later)**

“Sam?” Dean called, kicking his boots off by the door, grimacing at the faint traces of motor oil that they’d left on the doormat. Sam would kick his ass for that later, no doubt – the one downside to his brother being fully over the worst of the withdrawal symptoms (though Dean knew that the cravings were still there, might be for years), was that the kid’s OCD was back in full force.

“In the kitchen,” The younger boy called back, quieter than most people expected from a kid of his size. Dean grinned, plodding through the hallway in his socks and shucking his jacket, dropping it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs; Sam glanced up from the kitchen counter, frowning at Dean’s wet hair. “Dude, you’re soaked! Is it raining?”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “Sam, its two weeks until Christmas in  _South Dakota._  No, it’s not raining, dumbass. It’s  _snowing._ ”

Sam blinked almost comically, turning back to the window over the sink as if noticing for the first time that the blinds were still drawn. “Huh, I didn’t even notice. Think we’ll have a white Christmas?”

Dean shrugged. “Here’s to hoping. Hey, you hungry? I brought celebratory Chinese back. I know it’s your favourite.”

“Chinese food  _and_  snow, all in one day?” Sam was grinning like a little kid on Christmas morning, before Dean’s words actually caught up to him and he frowned. “Wait, celebratory? What are we celebrating?”

“There’s lots of things to celebrate, Sammy.” Dean grinned teasingly, dropping the take-out bag onto the counter and beginning to pull the containers of food out. “Our new home, our first Christmas together, you being clean… my awesome new job.”

“You got the job?” Sam asked, smiling brighter than Dean had seen in years. “The one you were gunning for over at Singer Salvage? Dean, that’s awesome, man!”

Dean laughed, caught up in his baby brother’s enthusiasm… and then caught up in his baby brother, as Sam wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in for a hug. Dean didn’t fight it, wrapping his own arms around his baby brother and squeezing gently, momentarily overwhelmed by the realisation that this was going to work.  _They_  were going to work.

“The boss even seems alright,” He added after a few moments, gently pulling away, eager to get to the food before it got cold. “Grouchy, but a good guy.”

“I’m so pleased for you,” Sam said, sounding a little choked. When Dean looked up, it was to see that Sam had tears in his eyes, still looking pleased.

“Hey,” Dean frowned, worried. “Sammy? What’s wrong?”

Sam shook his head.

“Nothing. I’m being a girl… it’s just, this is more than I ever expected to have, y’know? After…” He stumbled for a few moments over her name, but Dean didn’t push, didn’t want Sam to ever feel like he couldn’t talk about her. “After Jess, I thought that was it for me. But this… I’m  _happy._ ”

Dean smiled again, softer this time, and pulled his brother in to drop a kiss on his head.

“Yeah, Sammy.” He grinned. “Me, too.”

They worked together to dish out the food, Sam rolling his eyes and announcing that they’d be eating Chinese for a week when he saw the number of containers that Dean had brought back for the two of them. Dean wasn’t ashamed to admit that he may have gone a little overboard when ordering the stuff, but it wasn’t like Sammy wouldn’t eat Chinese every day for the rest of his life if he was given the chance.

Dean had finally got the TV up and running for the night before, and Sam spent a few seconds fashioning a table out of a cardboard box that they had yet to unpack, dragging two of the cushions of the sofa to use as seats. Den grabbed a few comedy DVDs from the stack in the corner, and paused to turn on the electric fireplace before settling down.

With the lights off and the fire roaring, warm food and a cold soda, is was hard to believe that they’d come so far in such a short space of time.

Dean knew that there would always be a part of Sam that would ache for what he had lost, for Jess and the life they could have lived together – Sam Winchester the lawyer and his beautiful wife. Just like there was a part of both of them that had longed for their father to be there when they were hefting boxes into their new apartment, if only to tell them that he was proud of them.

Like there was a part of them both that, even as they laughed and joked and smiled, wondered if life wouldn’t be even just that small bit better with the knowledge that if they were to phone their mother right that second, she’d answer the phone.

But for now this was all they needed.

Just the two of them, a two-bedroom apartment two states over from everything they’d ever known and Dean’s baby safely tucked away in the parking garage. The assurance that yes, they really could pay the bills, really could make this work.

Dean remembered dreams of fire and blood. Remembered their mother screaming as she was pinned to the ceiling, making deals with demons and a car accident that had ended in devastation. He remembered brothers bonded by pain and grief and loss, two broken boys drinking bottles of bear on the Impala’s bonnet, gazing up at the sky and wondering where their lives had gone so wrong.

Dean remembered nights of dreams, days of longing, and he smiled.

Because somehow, this was better than it all.


End file.
